Only let me have a look at the harvestFrom my ceaseless toil, the quietly ripening fruitsOf my talent. But what on earthAre these wretched things you bring?Did I lie drunk with smugness in my little denAt having produced this inert, unsightly crop?My soul screams in mute desolationAt the thought of carrying this sight with me,I beg you, don't add to the burden of this journey.